


Jeeves And The Unusual Situation

by cuddyclothes



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Awkward Boners, First Time Blow Jobs, Frazzled!Jeeves, Household Accidents, M/M, Minor Injuries, Oral Sex, POV Jeeves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 14:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14854811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddyclothes/pseuds/cuddyclothes
Summary: Becoming intimate with one’s employer—or any member of an employer’s family—is a temptation some of my fellows in service have been unable to resist. I had been able to avoid this temptation in the past. But dressing and undressing Mr. Wooster, smelling his unique scent, feeling his flesh beneath my fingers as I slid his socks on and clipped his sock garters, proved a daily struggle between duty and desire.Jeeves is having aterribleday.





	Jeeves And The Unusual Situation

The poet Julia Carney wrote: _Little drops of water, Little grains of sand, Make the mighty ocean, And the pleasant land._

But on this most trying of days, little drops of water were only the beginning of a cascade of aggravating events. While I pride myself on being consummate at dealing with the Unusual Situation, this time it was the Usual Situations that were the most difficult to deal with.

I rose at my customary time of 5:30, enjoying the quiet of the flat in the mornings. Five or six hours to myself before Mr. Wooster arose and the usual alarums and excursions began.

The difficulties began immediately. The shower in my bathroom did not work, giving only “little drops of water”. Checking the guest bathroom, I found the plumbing in a similar state of disrepair.

Silently I passed through Mr. Wooster’s bedroom. He was deeply asleep, snuffling. I checked the tap. The water was functioning. If I could have, I would have used Mr. Wooster’s bathtub, but this would be taking a liberty. Not that Mr. Wooster would have minded, he is the most generous employer I have had. But it offended my sense of order to do so. Therefore I had to don my uniform without feeling entirely clean and could not refrain from repeatedly washing my hands whenever I was in the kitchen.

Distracted, I baked scones for Mr. Wooster’s breakfast. Taking them out of the oven, my hand accidentally grazed the hot oven shelf. Because of my training, I did not snatch my hand away, but folded the dishtowel over the injured member and placed the tray on trivets on the kitchen table. It is not done to let minor injuries to interfere with one’s duty.  

The consequence was that I had not placed the burn under a cold tap to soothe the burn. Two large pale blisters emerged on the inner part of the area between my thumb and first finger. Biting my lip, I washed my hands again, then re-wrapped the dishtowel.

I had recently ended an understanding with a young waitress, and found it to be more depressing than I would have thought. Mabel was not particularly intelligent, but she was a capable girl and would have made a tolerable wife. But the notion of spending my days in a loveless marriage with an unsuitable woman was more than I was willing to tolerate. Until now I had not developed feelings for my employers, keeping my personal life separated from my professional life. My natural reserve served me well as I learned to wear an impassive mask that allowed me the privacy I craved, even in the midst of others. It had worked until I came to be employed by Bertram Wooster.

If at first I found Mr. Wooster’s prattle annoying, I grew to appreciate his remarkable linguistic facility. I grew to appreciate the remarkable twists and turns of his mind. I grew to appreciate his generous nature. In short, I grew to appreciate Mr. Wooster. Dangerously so. His good looks and lack of forcefulness of character caused him to become engaged to a number of unsuitable women, any one of whom would have liked to see the back of me. If Mr. Wooster had truly loved any of them I would have swallowed my feelings and stepped aside. Such a catastrophe had been avoided during my tenure, I am pleased to say.

Becoming intimate with one’s employer—or any member of an employer’s family—is a temptation some of my fellows in service have been unable to resist. I had been able to avoid this temptation in the past. But dressing and undressing Mr. Wooster, smelling his unique scent, feeling his flesh beneath my fingers as I slid his socks on and clipped his sock garters, proved a daily struggle between duty and desire.

_Vexations may be petty, but they are vexations still._

My injured hand smarted because I had not taken prompt action when it was burned. I bandaged it awkwardly with my other hand, biting my lip. Mr. Wooster would certainly notice and fret about any possible pain I might have. Filling the kettle, I was determined to hold it in my right hand. I stifled a hiss when some of the water from the kitchen tap splashed on the burn. No, much of my work would have to be done with my left hand.

I am used to holding a tray with a cup and saucer in one hand. When Mr. Wooster awoke, I gave him his tea without effort. However I had not counted upon his observational powers so early after rising.

“Jeeves!” he exclaimed. “What the deuce happened to the paw?” He was out of bed and turning my wrist in his hands. I flinched. His wide blue eyes searched my face. “You’re in pain! Do you need the day off? Should we be thinking of hospital?”

“It is only a slight burn, sir. I shall be better directly.”

Mr. Wooster eyed me dubiously. “If I hear screams from the pantry, Jeeves, it’s off to the bally hospital. Perhaps I should take over some of your duties today?”

“NO—er, it will not be necessary.” Then I remembered something appalling: I had not made Mr. Wooster’s breakfast, so flustered had I been by my injury and the subsequent difficulty of doing my morning chores.

Mr. Wooster always notes my most minute changes of expression. “Jeeves, what else is bothering that great brain of yours?”

“Sir, I am ashamed to confess that I have not finished preparing your breakfast. I shall attend to it immediately.”

Mr. Wooster drew himself up. “You shall not, my man! I cannot sentence a man honorably wounded in battle to mess duty! The young master shall see what he can scrounge up. And we can put some—what do they put on burns, Jeeves? Suet? Anchovy paste? Something slide-y.”

“Butter, sir.”

“Lead on and I shall slather your hand with butter.”

The image of Mr. Wooster slathering my hand with butter gave me a startling _frisson_.

“Jeeves?”

“I must retire to the kitchen, sir.”

“I shall accompany you. The young master will not hear of his valet struggling over a hot stove, tears of pain streaming down his cheeks, valiantly striving to make toast.”

“Sir—“

“Tut!” He drew on his dressing gown. “I refuse to dress until I have seen you through, Jeeves.”

“Very good sir,” I sighed.

Mr. Wooster trailed after me as I returned to the kitchen. He watched me closely as I took the bread from the breadbox with my left hand. “Your hand, Jeeves, it looks as though _I_ bandaged it.” He stepped between me and the kitchen table. “Let me see.”

“Sir, there is no need. I have attended to it.”

“Tut and tut again, my good man! Let me see it.”

With great trepidation, I unwrapped the bandage, managing not to flinch as I did so. Mr. Wooster’s eyes widened. “Golly, Jeeves, that’s bally awful!”

“It is of no consequence, sir.”

“Jeeves, you astound me. Here, give me the butter.” He reached past me and pulled the butter dish close. Then, to my dismay, he scooped up a handful of butter, which was most unsanitary. "Jeeves, one would think you don't want me to touch you! You touch me every day!”

Grabbing my hand, he slathered the burn with butter. I stifled a gasp.

“Does that hurt, Jeeves?” He stared straight into my eyes. I suppressed an urge to lick the butter off my hand in front of him. _Steady on, man!_

“No, sir.”

He dropped his gaze. After being directed to the first aid kit, we sat and he bandaged my hand, only slightly less awkwardly than I had. The feeling of his fingers on my hand and wrist stirred me far too much for comfort. I stood as quickly as I could and moved away. “Thank you, sir.”

It took quite a bit of persuasion to convince Mr. Wooster that he should return to his bedroom and await his breakfast. He trailed out of the kitchen, giving my hand a concerned look as he went. I fetched a tray and served him scones, butter and jam.

Perhaps because of that, he was uncharacteristically meek when I disdained a purple patterned necktie. “If you say so, Jeeves, then around the creamy Wooster throat it shall not go,” was all he said. It was unpleasantly disconcerting.

Mr. Wooster sat and watched me after he was dressed. I was becoming, I admit, frantic. His unwavering stare flustered me. I pretended duties to be done in my quarters and escaped. What had come over me? Where was my self-control? The words of Leonardo da Vinci echoed in my brain: _the height of a man's success is gauged by his self-mastery; the depth of his failure by his self-abandonment._ Needing a distraction, I took my clothes out of my wardrobe to air it, leaving the drawers open. Then I inspected each garment for wear, the same way I did for Mr. Wooster’s clothes.

Eventually, Mr. Wooster knocked on my door and announced he was leaving for an appointment with one of his friends from the Drones. After he had gone, I went into his bedroom. As I gathered up his nightwear and dressing gown, I suddenly plunged my face into the cloth and inhaled deeply.

After that, as the writer and philosopher Elbert Hubbard once said, it was “one damn thing after another”. When the laundry arrived, it was someone else’s laundry. The delivery boy was rude, as was the laundry owner when I telephoned to complain. “You always find something to be snippy about, Mr. Jeeves,” the man said.

“Your service leaves much to be desired,” I responded coolly. My reward was being hung up upon.

Working with my left hand was far more complicated than I anticipated. My chores have always come easily to me. My hands are nimble. But today they were impeded and clumsy. Washing a crystal vase so that I might put fresh flowers in it, it slipped from my grasp and exploded upon hitting the kitchen floor. Tiny glittering shards of glass were everywhere, under everything. When I thought I’d gotten the last of it, more shining pieces could be seen.  I drew a deep breath as I wiped the floor with a wet rag, and reminded myself of the words of Spinoza: _“When a man is prey to his emotions, he is not his own master.”_ I would not allow myself to become unduly upset over the broken vase. I would purchase a substitute. _And then that will break_ , I thought sourly, then admonished myself for dwelling on the unpleasant.

To lift my spirits, I switched on the wireless. My favorite classical station was not on the air until the evening. Turning the knob with my left hand, I could only find news, testimonials to liniment, and popular music. I switched it off. My spirits were low enough without suffering through Elsie Carlisle singing “I Love My Baby”.

Mr. Wooster telephoned to say he was lunching with the Biffens. I breathed a sigh of relief. No luncheon to prepare. I could concentrate on the flat.

The umbrella stand smelt of mildew from wet umbrellas. I took it into the pantry to give it a rinse with bleach. Again, my traitorous hands caused havoc. The umbrella stand slipped and slid. Bleach splashed over not only my apron, but the hem of my trousers, ruining them.  The last thing I wanted to do, not having bathed, was to change into a clean pair, but I had no choice.

The more things went wrong, the more I felt out of control and harried. The potatoes I had planned to serve for dinner had sprouted eyes. The wine I was to make sauce with had turned to vinegar. _You should have remembered you needed to use different wine_ , I chastised myself.

When the phone rang, I unthinkingly picked up the receiver with my right hand. The pain caused me to almost drop the receiver. “Jeeves!” came Mr. Wooster’s cheery voice.

“Good evening, sir.”

“How are the digits? Not causing you grief?”

“No, sir. Will you be dining in?”

“Sorry to deprive you of my company, my good man. But old Bingo wants me to meet his latest pash. She’s an adagio dancer, can you believe it? Well, the man’s been with waitresses, chorus girls, and opera singers. He’ll run out of professions before he runs out of girls, what?”

“Indeed, sir. Enjoy the performance, sir.”

“You’re certain you don’t want me to return to the cherished abode? You’ll be all right on your own?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then take the evening off. Go to the Junior Ganymede or whatever else it is you do on your evenings off.”

“Thank you, sir, but I think I shall spend a quiet evening reading and listening to classical music.”

“Oh! Well, there won’t very well be Beethoven accompanying an adagio dancer. Vivaldi, perhaps, but not Beethoven. Goodnight, Jeeves!”

“Good night, sir.” I was surprised and gratified he knew who Vivaldi was. It was amusing to imagine a nightclub dancer trying to follow along to “The Four Seasons”.

I should have known. My classical station was taken over by a cricket match. Ordinarily I would have enjoyed listening. Tonight I craved Chopin. There were no records of that sort to play on the Victrola, only Mr. Wooster’s collection of popular tunes. I rubbed my temple, feeling the beginning of a headache.

It was past midnight when I heard the sound of someone fumbling at the lock at the front door. I could not help rolling my eyes and sending up a brief prayer to Heaven that Mr. Wooster not be drunk. I was exhausted and ill-tempered. I wished to go to bed and put this benighted day out of my mind. But even this was not to be. There continued to be failed attempts at the lock. Schooling my features into impassivity, I opened the door. Mr. Wooster fell past me onto the carpet, his top hat rolling a short distance.

“Goo’ evenin’, Jeeves,” Mr. Wooster said cheerily, turning onto his back. He smiled woozily and watched me fetch his hat, brush it off with my sleeve, and place it in the closet.

“Good evening, sir,” I said coldly. Lord, let this day end!  Mr. Wooster had not been so far “under the surface” for many months. One had thought he had put such antics behind him. But it was in line with the rest of the day. “Do you require my help, sir?”

I bent down to help him up. He lurched up and fell against me. “Sorry, old thing,” he mumbled, his head on my shoulder. “Legs. Not working.”

“Nonetheless we shall get you to bed, sir.”

He put his arms around my shoulders. Then his legs buckled, leaving him holding onto me lest he fall to the ground.

“Sir, please stand up,” I said, stepping back, putting my arms around his waist and trying to place him back on his feet. It was unnervingly like an embrace between a man and a woman in a film.

“’Member when I used to do this all the time, what? You’d let me be close t’you.”

“It is my job, sir.” Our faces were far too close together. My right hand stung. I clenched it, causing stinging burning pain. For once I was grateful that I had something unpleasant to concentrate on.

“Noooo,” he drawled into my neck. “Carry me, you big strong man.” There was an undertone of his voice that sent a shiver through me. We stood there. I had never seen him so drunk before. He did not sound like himself.

“Sir, you need to go to bed.”

“I had some absinthe,” he said dreamily. “Bally horrid stuff.”

So that was the reason for his ridiculous behavior. The one previous occasion he had partaken of absinthe, he had climbed atop a bookcase at the Drones, shouting that he was fighting an invading army about to come over the horizon.

“Whee!” Mr. Wooster took his arms from my shoulders and fell down, almost taking me with him. My arms around his waist helped break his fall. I hastily stepped back, involuntarily grabbing my bandaged hand with the other one.

“Sorry, old thing!” He giggled. “That was fun!” He sat up, one hand on the floor, steadying himself.  “Oh, dear, I forgot about the injured paw. Sorry. I’ll behave. I’ll behave.”

 _I should go to bed,_ I thought. _Leave him to get to the bedroom on his own. It would serve him right._ I sighed. It was my job to get Mr. Wooster to bed.

“Very good, sir.” I again bent down to help him. This time I was careful to merely take hold of one arm. As I stood, he pulled at me, nearly pulling me off my feet again.

“Wheee!”

I wanted to box his ears. “Sir, if you persist in this activity, you shall not be able to go to bed.” If I could get him to the chesterfield, that would be enough. Lord, this day simply would not end!

Mr. Wooster lay on his back again, crossing his arms behind his head and balancing one foot on the other bent knee. “Apologies, ‘m behaving badly.”

“I must agree, sir.” If I could have, I would have folded my arms. Left the room.

“Jeeves, have I ever tole you—tole you—tole you—ah, hell—“

“Told me what, sir?”

He gave me an inebriated grin. “Tole you I wonder whazzin' your trou, old thing.”

To my utter astonishment and horror, Mr. Wooster sat up and reached for my trouser buttons.

“Sir!” I cried, pulling at his hands. But he would not be dissuaded.

“Don’ be a pooper-party, Jeeves, lessee what you got.” He grinned up at me. “I think about it. When you serve me dinner and bend over with the plate. Hmmmm.” He nodded, as if assuring himself of something. “D’ya know, you’ve got a corking profile?” He licked his lips. “Corking profile, Jeeves. Corking other things, I wonder?” Mr. Wooster undid the buttons so quickly and skillfully I barely had time to react.

But react I did. I am ashamed to say that between holding his forearms and feeling his fingers upon my flies I was already aroused. This man whom I touched every day, whom I thought of as forbidden, on his knees before me. Drunk, and ardent.

I dislike using coarse language. However, I do not know what other words to use to describe what happened next. Because it was coarse.

Mr. Wooster opened my trousers and tugged at the waistband of my drawers. I gasped. “Mr. Wooster, please—“

“Please what, Jeeves? I _know_ what please Jeeves.” He lightly rubbed my length through the thin cotton. It was almost fully hard. I was embarrassed, and angry, and horribly aroused. This was not me, a man undone, letting his master take advantage of him. But this was me, it was more purely me than I could admit to.

“By Jove,” he said, and pulled down my drawers with a clumsy yank. My length sprang free, and Mr. Wooster laughed with delight. “Look at that!” he exclaimed. “Your cock is as hard as a...very hard thing!” Then he lightly ran his palms along the sides and I nearly shouted with pleasure. How was this happening? Why didn’t I stop it? Because I didn’t want to stop it. Mr. Wooster’s hands felt _miraculous._

“'Allo, Jeeves cock,” he addressed it jovially.

“It is Jeeves’s cock, sir,” I blurted before I could stop myself. “It is a double sibilant.”

“I’ll say! Been wanting t’meet you for donkey’s years.” He leaned forward, and kissed the tip. I gasped, loudly. Mr. Wooster smiled up at me. “I thought you’d like that,” he said happily. “Now, excuse me, Jeeves, I must talk to your splendid cock.” He turned back to it. “Jeeves’s cock, d’ya know, you look precisely as I pictured. Quite impressive, and such a spiffy dark red. Your owner would never let me wear a tie that color.” He looked up at me again and winked. “ _Don’t tell him_ ,” he whispered, his lips close to the head.

“Sir—“

Mr. Wooster smiled up at me again. “How about some poetry, old fruit? Your cock and I would enjoy a few poetical lines.” He again turned to my aching length. “Wouldn’t you, Jeeves’s cock?” He looked back up. “He agrees with me.”

The unreality of the situation made me smile. Impulsively, I recited T.S. Eliot.

“ _And indeed there will be time to wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and ‘Do I dare?_ ”

“I think you do dare, Jeeves.”

“ _My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, my necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—do I dare disturb the universe?_ ”

“I think you do dare, Jeeves,” he repeated, and hiccuped. Then he took my length into his mouth, ungracefully, letting it slide along his tongue. I started, and groaned despite myself. Mr. Wooster closed his lips around it, tongue licking, then pulled back his head slowly, letting it pop out of his mouth. He giggled, and repeated the action.

Watching his brown head bobbing beneath me, I was seized by two conflicting emotions: the thrill of mastery that I stood over my employer as he pleasured me; and anger that in my position as his man, I could not more forcefully refuse him. These were mixed confusingly with the hot urges careening through my body.

 “You aren’t drunk,” he said out of nowhere.

“No, sir." I had planted my feet at a slight distance from each other so that I would not fall myself during Mr. Wooster’s ministrations.

“I can’ get hard when ‘m drunk. So you. are. not. drunk.”

“Indeed, sir,” then I said the unthinkable: “I am not drunk and I am painfully hard.”

He giggled and addressed my cock again. “You are, aren’t you?” Then he took it in his hand and guided it again to his mouth. Mr. Wooster wound one arm around my leg for support, and sucked my length. Eagerly, with his tongue licking the ridge underneath. Moaning, heart pounding, I bent slightly, placing my hands on his slender shoulders for support. I am taller and weightier than Mr. Wooster, and I did not want to injure him if I fell. Heavy pleasure filled my pelvis as he licked and sucked. My knees shook, but I remained upright. He was evoking sensations from me that were far stronger than my solitary endeavors. It became harder to stand as his lips slid over me. His mouth made wet, smacking sounds as he sucked more and more eagerly.

The pain in my hand was ferocious, but I ignored it. Mr. Wooster’s talented mouth would have made Prometheus ignore the pain of the eagle eating his liver. I couldn’t help smiling at how close this was to the sort of garbled metaphor Mr. Wooster so often used. The words of Emily Dickinson rang in my head:

 _Wild nights - Wild nights!_  
_Were I with thee_  
_Wild nights should be_  
_Our luxury!_

The heaviness in my groin became unbearable, became all-consuming. I shook and grimaced, eyes closing, teeth clenched, in an undignified display of emotion as I exploded in bliss.

Mr. Wooster choked and coughed, letting go of my leg. I could stay upright no longer and dropped to the ground, falling on my side. This impact brought me back to myself. I was shocked to find myself lying on the ground, trousers and drawers around my knees, my length softened and dripping. My hand throbbed. I tucked my cock clumsily back into my drawers with my left hand and did up my flies.

I wished for nothing more than to run away. I wished for nothing more than to reciprocate, to bring Mr. Wooster to the same height of ecstasy he had brought me.

“Did you like that?” Mr. Wooster asked me softly. We were lying near each other. I stared at him without the faintest idea of what to do next. A bit of my sperm mixed with his spit dripped from the corner of his mouth. I wanted to lick it off.

“Very much, sir,” I managed. “Very, very much.”

“Good-o! Job well done, Wooster!” he crowed. He leapt to his feet gracefully. “Let’s help you up, Jeeves. Don’t fret, I won’t touch the wound.” He reached down to help me up.

Bewildered by the sudden change, I allowed Mr. Wooster to assist me to my feet. When I was standing, he wiped his mouth and gave me a peck on the cheek.

To my astonishment, he winked at me, perfectly sober, then bent down and spoke to my trousers. “Tell Jeeves it was spiffing to meet you,” he said, and raised his eyes to mine. “I’ll see myself to bed, Jeeves. But bear in mind that it’s your turn next. Doubtless your technique will be smoother than the young master’s!”

“Indeed, sir,” I managed as the door shut.

As I prepared myself for bed, I decided that after tonight the Unusual Situation would become the Usual Situation.


End file.
